Fatma bid them greetings, then said, “We’re here to see the Leopardess.”
A tall girl with Soudanese features ran Fatma up and down. “Back for some more? Where’s that fat policeman? I’d enjoy slapping his face again, wallahi!”
The other girls barked laughter. So this was the one who had delivered that five-fingered palm to Aasim’s face. And, as Fatma recalled, taken a swing at her. Probably best to let that go.
“She knows we’re coming. So just take us there.”
Another girl said something rude, setting her friends to renewed laughter. But the first one shot them a look that brought silence. She glanced again at Fatma, before turning and beckoning to follow. They were led into the mausoleum, where more people stood about. All women, all wearing the same red kaftans and Turkish trousers, with the older ones in matching red hijabs. Some kind of rank perhaps. From somewhere nearby came the unexpected sounds of children’s laughter.
The girl stopped to confer with one of the women, who eyed both Fatma and Hadia. When they finished, the girl left, presumably returning to her post. Someone from their cluster came forward—a woman in a white dress and black hijab, wearing of all things a brilliant necklace of sapphires and rubies. Her brown skin bore creases and slight bags about her curving eyes, while her body had the stoutness of a grandmother. There was a discomfiting cast to her gaze, however, almost predatory. That was fitting as well, for the leader of the Forty Leopards.
The moment the angels said Siwa hired thieves bold enough to break into their vault, Fatma had known it could only be them. Who else would be that brazen? The lady thieves had started out as shoplifters, often wearing full bur’a, sebleh, and milaya lef to hide their ill-gained goods. They’d gone on to ransack homes of the wealthy, posing as servants and maids, then to heists that made off with jewels, art, and once an entire armored carriage carrying casks of gold coins. To this day, no one knew what had happened to it. Their members went in and out of prison, usually for the smaller crimes. But none revealed a word, serving time in silence. Their leader remained untouched and un-betrayed. People claimed she was as hard to catch as the feline moniker associated with her gang.
“Peace be upon you, Leopardess. I’m Agent Fatma, this is Agent Hadia. Thank you for meeting with us.”
“And upon you peace, agents,” the head of the Forty Leopards replied. “The Usta said to expect you.”
That would be Khalid. The bookie was Fatma’s best tie to Cairo’s underworld. She’d contacted him straight after meeting with the cursed Marid. To her surprise, he’d said the leader of the gang was willing to meet with them—today.
“Tell me, agents,” she went on, “why shouldn’t I have some of my daughters bind the two of you right now and seal you up in one of these mausoleums—where not even someone in your vaunted Ministry will hear your screams?”
Fatma tensed. The words were offered idly, as if asking how much honey they wanted spooned into their tea. But it held the promise of a drawn blade. Beside her Hadia went rigid, eyes scanning the room. No girls like the ones outside, but grown and fit women—very much like leopards. So it was going to be that kind of meeting.
“We didn’t come here to threaten you,” Fatma said. “Or to be threatened by you.”
The Leopardess’s tone went cold. “The last time agents were in el-Arafa, you caused a riot.”
Fatma felt her indignation rise. “Your people were the ones stirring up the crowd. Working on the side of the man in the gold mask.”
The woman’s dark eyes drew to slits, her voice tight. “We are only on el-Arafa’s side. Do not place us in league with that foul man. You came in as an army onto our land, among the people we protect and who protect us in turn. We would have fought you to the end.”
Alright, then, Fatma conceded. One question answered—even if not how she’d planned going about it. Time to de-escalate.
“That night,” she said with regret in her voice. “It was a mistake.”
The Leopardess seemed to weigh her sincerity. She finally gave the apology the barest nod of acceptance. “People in el-Arafa are bad off enough without all of you making things worse. It seems the only time we see the police is when there’s some crime in the more respectable parts of Cairo. People here distrust authorities, and with good reason. That night didn’t help.”
“I don’t think the man in the gold mask helped either,” Hadia put in. “He’s the problem.”
The leader of the Forty Leopards looked to Hadia—who actually took a step back under that hard gaze. But the older woman dipped her head appreciatively.
“He is a problem,” she agreed. “No one who lives here is stupid or gullible. They’re just tired of the exploitation. Tired of being ignored. Desperate ears will listen to anyone offering up others to blame. What do you want of me?”
“Khalid said you’d be willing to tell us about one of your contracts,” Fatma said. “For a djinn named Siwa.”
The older woman eyed them both now with scrutiny. The uneasy quiet that followed was broken by a lilting adhan.
“Time for prayer,” she remarked. “You’ll join me. And you may call me Layla.”
That wasn’t a request. So after performing their ablutions, they prayed.
When they’d finished, the Leopardess—Layla—led Fatma and Hadia through the mausoleum to an entrance in the back,
